


and i had no idea on what ground i was found in

by seasidhe (sidhedcv)



Series: history: a novel [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alcohol, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:27:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23908456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sidhedcv/pseuds/seasidhe
Summary: The first time Augusto meets him, Byzantium is there as hisgift.Augusto supposes he is, in more ways than one, since the whole territory of Byzantium is now propriety of the Roman Republic. Since he didn't even have to fight a war to conquer one of the most secure and prosperous cities on the Mediterranean Sea.
Relationships: Ancient Rome/Byzantium, Rome/Byzantine Empire (Hetalia)
Series: history: a novel [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1723360
Kudos: 5





	and i had no idea on what ground i was found in

**Author's Note:**

> I don't really know how to introduce this thing. I created Byzantium (and I really tweaked Rome how I wanted) almost ten years ago, and I've already written about them in Italian a few times before. Mostly, I used to roleplay them with my partner, who passed away two years ago. So this is mostly for you because I promised I was going to try and translate what I already wrote and write something new, and I'm keeping my promise. At least I'm trying.  
> For the same reason, I'll leave [here](https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/wickedalbion/search/aph+rome) the link to some of the drawings she made of these two.  
> Anyway, there's probably gonna be more of this.
> 
> (Scritto per l'inziativa _Esploratori del Polyverso_ di LDF, capitolo 0.1, con prompt: tuono.)

The first time Augusto meets him, Byzantium is there as his _gift_.

Augusto supposes he is, in more ways than one, since the whole territory of Byzantium is now propriety of the Roman Republic. Since he didn't even have to fight a war to conquer one of the most secure and prosperous cities on the Mediterranean Sea.

They never met before. The first time they do, Augusto is celebrating with his ever-present soldiers, right there in the city he just conquered. They never met before. The first time they do, Augusto is feasting with his soldiers and can't shake the feeling that someone is looking right at him.

It takes him more than he'd like to admit to find out where this feeling is coming from. When he does, he's stunned.

Deep, dark eyes are watching him with a piercing gaze, a look that has something weird and dangerous and fascinating at the same time.

Augusto can’t see anything other than those eyes – and he’ll remember that moment for the rest of his eternity. He doesn't notice anything else, all of his instincts and training suddenly forgotten.

In the following confusion, due to his soldiers shouting and loud celebrating, Augusto loses sight of those eyes.

He keeps searching for the rest of the feast. He keeps searching but he doesn't manage to find those eyes and their owner. It comes to a point when he decides all he can do is try to take his mind off and just focus on the celebration.

Augusto manages to distract himself well enough with the numerous courses the slaves keep bringing over. His major distraction, though, seems to be the wine. The lovely spiced wine of which apparently flows freely in the streets of Byzantium.

In all his centuries of life Augusto luckily developed the special ability to hold his liquor. Mostly. That's why, as the feast comes to an end, he still has the clarity it takes to calmly analyze the situation. This allows him to understand that a few of his soldiers are dragging him, among whispers and laughter, in one of the palace’s rooms.

He tries to question the soldiers, but it's all in vain. He asks where are they taking him and why is everybody so mysterious. He asks if they are hiding something but his men don’t seem to listen to him. And it would probably be less embarrassing to say they _forced_ him to stay quiet.

They walk through a narrow corridor and Augusto still tries to understand what’s happening: right, left, straight for a while, a few steps, stairs, left again and then they stop, a door opened in front of them. He couldn’t recognize what palace’s wing they’re in for all the wine in the world.

Augusto manages to catch a glimpse of the furniture, just enough to notice a certain _oriental_ taste – greek, he’d say – but those tiny details aren’t enough to identify the owner of the rooms or why he’s been brought there with such secrecy.

“They allowed us to prepare this for you,” one of his soldiers smiles and waves his hand to the center of the room. He then steps aside, letting a few servants led Augusto to a triclinium.

He sits, surrounded by other soldiers, glancing – this time more carefully – around the room, detail to detail, object to object, until his look wanders over a figure hiding in the dark.

There’s something familiar about that figure, but that thought remains at the edge of his mind, while he’s too busy wondering what now?

Suddenly a feeble music begins. Augusto hears some flutes and at first he tries to continue his analysis, until too much wine brings him to the conclusion that the point isn’t the music, of course. As immersive and intoxicating as it is.

The point is the other door in the room, from which a dozen people – men and women alike – just entered. The figure in the dark joins them and Augusto wonders again what’s so familiar about that young man.

And then the dancers – because now he gets it: they’re dancers – are in the center of the room, busy enchanting the viewers with fluent movements, even when they’re simply walking.

Augusto’s gaze is fixed on one single person. One single person that is dancing so damn close to his triclinium. Augusto is staring at him and yet he still doesn’t understand why he feels that way.

Something keeps nagging at him for a few moments more until the man looks up and raises a hand – still timed with the music, in a deliberately elegant gesture – and brushes a few locks of long, dark hair over his ear.

The moment Augusto sees his eyes, he immediately realizes what was so familiar about that man. His eyes are the same eyes he saw during the feast. The eyes that so quickly disappeared and that are now fixed into his own.

Without even noticing what he’s doing, Augusto holds his breath and leans over the second triclinium, whispering a few words to the soldier next to him.

“Who’s that? Byzantium, we thought you already met him,” the man simply answers, busy watching closely one of the girls’ movements.

Augusto needs a few more minutes to completely realize what’s happening: that gorgeous man, who tempts him with every single step, is in fact Byzantium.

“I haven’t had the pleasure”.

The soldier turns to him once again, with a genuine smile on his lips, glad to see Rome is enjoying the show. “I guess we made the right choice”.

Augusto doesn’t even know what he’s talking about since every single one of his mental faculties is too busy with a task of the utmost importance: following a particularly low movement of the young man’s hips. The man that apparently is trying to drive him crazy with those hips and that tiny waist and those perfect lines.

Augusto knows he's watching him like a wolf. Augusto knows he's not even pretending to hide the desire that rushes in his veins. Augusto knows the way his eyes follow every moment, every curve and every line of Byzantium's body. The long, lean curve of his spine, the waist Augusto could wholly encircle with his own hands. The slim hips that move slowly and maddening, in what is obviously a very deliberate movement. The silky black hair that falls down on his shoulder, the utter perfection in every single feature of his face. An artist would cry in front of such beauty.

Augusto, on the other hand, wants to _have_ him.

He nods, after a while, managing to form a second question only after a few minutes. "Why is Byzantium dancing?”

And that’s honestly an understandable question: Augusto knows, from what the other dancers are wearing, they’re slaves and eunuchs. Byzantium, though, is still Byzantium and as much as Augusto likes what’s happening, he finds it weird that someone almost important as he is could be persuaded to do something like this.

Nobody has an answer for him, not his own soldiers, not the palace's servants. Byzantium must have had his motives, but Augusto is at a point where he doesn't really care.

He focuses again on the other men’s steps, humming lowly when he hears the music becoming fainter and he sees Byzantium slowing down. Byzantium, who now takes a few steps towards him and then stops, motionless, still looking straight into his eyes, his breath steady.

Byzantium stands still as every other dancer leaves the room, without averting his eyes – and Augusto never, ever saw eyes that deep. Augusto never, ever knew anyone who could look into his eyes like that, like he's unafraid and completely unimpressed by what he has in front.

Those eyes seem to reflect the fire of the torches and burn, dark and deep, with a feeling Augusto can’t quite describe. A feeling that charms him and that somehow reminds him of the pride of a caged animal.

(Augusto saw that exact same look in the eyes of a lion in the Circus Maximus. This alone should make every red flag pretty evident, but Augusto is still fixed on Byzantium.)

He feels the looks of his soldiers on him and the sly smiles of the servants around him and suddenly he decides to send them away. With a simple nod of his head, still looking at Byzantium, he makes abundantly clear he won’t tolerate anyone in that room.

A couple of minutes go by and then he’s alone with Byzantium, still standing motionless in the center of the room. Augusto finally decides to stand up and close that distance between them.

“Byzantium,” Augusto whispers that single word, imbuing it with all the possessiveness he's able to convey. He wants Byzantium to know he belongs to him. He wants him to know he _owns_ him. That it doesn't matter how important he was before, how things were before. Byzantium is his possession now, and Augusto wants to make that abundantly clear.

Still looking at him, Augusto raises his right hand and brushes away a lock of dark hair.

Augusto can almost feel the young man shivering as he slides his hand on the back of Byzantium head and he finally kisses him, smirking silently when he feels Byzantium kissing him back.

A few moments later, Byzantium finds himself bent over the wall, trying to hide his moans as Rome’s callous hands spread his cheeks without any regard and without any kindness. He’s drunk enough not to be aware of what he’d consider lack of respect – and he’s sure that in ten, twelve hours when he’ll sober up a little, he’ll hate himself for what he’s letting Rome do.

For now, though, the influence of wine is heavy enough to let Byzantium do anything he wants: so he bends over even more and he spreads his legs even more and he lets Rome do everything he wants with his body. He lets Rome take control in every other possible way.

The thrusts, dry and quick, are enough to distract him from thoughts that not even the wine was able to get rid of. He can only give into Rome and let himself be conquered once again.

Augusto collapses on his triclinium only a few seconds after coming inside him, tired and confused because of too much wine, almost like he’s already forgotten him. Byzantium doesn’t mind. This allows him to get away from that room and hide in the narrow and empty streets of his city, where he’s sure no one will come looking for him.

It happens again, more times than Byzantium would like to confess. It happens again and again, Byzantium willingly going back to him, even if he could hide, even if he knows perfectly well this is his own fault too. He runs away after their meetings and the disgust he feels every time is still not enough to make him stop.

It happens again, with Rome's hands on him, claiming him and marking him as his property. Rome's callous hands holding him close, rending him powerless and weak. Byzantium yields, submits in every possible way - like he already did, like his own city already did.

It happens again, with Rome's eyes fixed on him, on every gesture and every little movement. Byzantium feels like a prey. Byzantium feels like he's being hunted. Byzantium feels a fire burning inside his chest. And he _likes_ it.

It happens again, with Rome smug smile and the harsh words with which he welcomes him. Did you offer yourself like this for all the others who came before me? Rome asks and Byzantium doesn't answer. He doesn't want to, he's unable to, he doesn't know what to say. He wants to deny it, but that would be a partial lie. He wants to deny it, but that would mean admitting that Rome has something different from the others.

But he _has_ something different. He _is_ different.

And Byzantium doesn't know what it is, doesn't know how he could possibly understand what exactly in Rome is calling him. Doesn't know why he's acting like this, doesn't know why he can't stop himself. Doesn't understand why his usual rationality is rendered completely useless with one single look from Rome.

Rome has come into his life like the thunder right after the lightning. His presence is loud and imposing, his laugh feels and sounds like the low rumble one can often hear in a thunderstorm. His whole being there feels like a thunderstorm waiting to happen.

(And when Rome looks at him, it feels like something already happened, like Byzantium has been caught in the thunderstorm. Like there’s no escaping, there’s nothing to do but to pray and wait for the storm to pass.)

It's the first time in his all existence he feels anything like this. He's still young, still inexperienced, still linked to his past in a way that makes it difficult for him to feel free.

But the point is exactly that, the point is he isn't free. He has never been free, not once in his entire existence. He belongs to Rome, like he once belonged to Megara, like he once belonged to the Persian Empire, like he once belonged to Sparta, like he once belonged to Athens. Like he once belonged to the Macedonian Empire.

Byzantium has never been free. He has no memory of what freedom means. He has no idea what it's happening in his mind and in his soul and in his heart.

He has no idea what's going to happen to his city.

But as he watches Rome ride away, after months spent enjoying his new conquest, he promises himself one thing: that which yields is not always weak.

When Augusto comes back, Byzantium has a different name.

When Augusto comes back, centuries later, _Byzantium_ is different.


End file.
